Page 41 of Practice Makes Perfect
“And Garcia?” His voice softens, marginally. “Get some sleep.”
I nod, stand, and head back to the locker room, where I find most of the guys have already cleared out. Practice ended early, but nobody wants to stick around when Coach is on the warpath, so as soon as I’d headed into his office they’d showered and taken off.
I don’t blame them. If I hadn’t been saddled with the co-captain title, I would have been out of there faster than any of them. But I’m only now taking off my gear and preparing to shower, when Mike approaches. He’s wearing the same jeans and a team hoodie he had on the bench, and still sporting the one crutch.
“Hey, you want to grab a coffee?” he says, leaning on his good leg. “There’s a new place that opened near the humanities buildings.”
I stare at him for a beat. We haven’t voluntarily hung out in weeks, except for the odd moment of being in the general proximity of each other at the apartment. Before he became Dr Doom, we’d regularly hang out all the time, including with Dec and Maine, and I miss it…
“Maybe the caffeine will help with your reaction times today.” He adds the dig with a thin smile that’s probably supposed to pass for playful.
And just like that, any interest I might have had in olive-branch coffee evaporates. “Can’t,” I say, pulling my shirt over my head. “Got a ton of homework.”
Mike’s jaw tightens. “Another time, then.” He turns to leave, but pauses. “Coach talk to you about Colgate?”
“Just the basics,” I say, feeling no need to mention that I’ve been assigned to fix his attitude before then.
“Cool,” Mike says, then limps away, and the locker room door swings shut behind him with a heavy thud a few moments later.
I sit on the bench, suddenly bone-weary. The walls of this locker room used to feel like a second home. Now they’re closing in, suffocating me under expectations I never asked for. I’m supposed to carry the team, save Mike, impress scouts—all while maintaining a 3.0 GPA to keep my scholarship.
Maine appears from around the corner where the shower stalls are, a towel wrapped around his waist. “You OK?”
Rook follows behind him, already dressed but vigorously toweling his hair. “Dude’s been an asshole all week.”
Despite myself, I snort. “You deserve it, though.”
Rook smiles, “But what about my fragile ego.”
“Don’t take it personally, either of you,” Maine says, pulling on his boxers. “He’s extra pissy about this Colgate game coming up.”
“Why? It’s not like Colgate’s even that good this year,” I say, confused by Maine’s comment.
Maine and Rook exchange glances.
“You don’t know?” Maine’s eyebrows rise. “His dad’s on sabbatical there this year.”
“Wait, what?” I sit up straighter. “His dad’s in New York?”
“Yeah, visiting professor gig or something.” Maine pulls on his jeans. “He was supposed to come to the game, but now…”
Now Mike will be watching from the bench, not playing. And his notoriously hard-to-impress father who rides his ass like a jockey will either witness his fall from grace or not bother to show up at all.
“How did I not know this?” The words come out more to myself than to them.
“Don’t you guys live together?” Rook asks, sitting to pull on his sneakers.
“We orbit each other,” I say. “Like planets. Or roommates who hate each other.”
“Sounds healthy,” Maine deadpans.
“We haven’t talked in ages.” I shrug. “Not about anything real, anyway.”
“It’s not just you,” Rook offers. “He barely talks to any of us anymore.”
Maine finishes dressing and drops onto the bench beside me. “Look, let’s get him drunk drunk enough this weekend to actually open up.”
“Good luck with that.” I stand, shouldering my bag. “But I’m out.”
